The Trials of a Theatrical Legend
by minnichi
Summary: Witness the Gaang's adventures through the eyes of Pu-on Tim, the mastermind behind the Ember Island Players' outstanding performance. Though his pursuit of the Avatar is far from easy, he knows that before every marvelous play must come a marvelous journey...and he will persevere! Step 1: Get permission from Long Feng.


Hi everyone 8)

This story is my own personal way to defeat my writer's block, which I've been having issues with for months now. My other Avatar fanfic in progress has always been a prettyyy serious tale, so I figured the solution to my problem is to write just the opposite: a completely chaotic and senseless tale! xD ...Okay, it DOES have a plot, and I DID try, but compared to my usual writings...well, you can see for yourself lol. I'm not sure how to feel about the result right now because this is 100% minnichi's wild imagination and 0% formality. eheh...

Anyway, I've based the protagonist's appearance on what we've all seen in the show, if any of you remember a certain picture on a poster :P Also, I've decided that he originates from Ba Sing Se; it specifically says that he is an Earth Kingdom playwright, and I think it'd make sense for him come from a rich and fabulous city in order for him to have enough supplies and money to follow the Gaang all over the world!

This will be the story we all know and love...but through the eyes of an acclaimed, devoted, and passionate writer of the stage. Hope it makes sense to you guys! xD

* * *

><p>Preposterous. Absolutely preposterous!<p>

What kind of world would dare to suppress such raw, boiling talent? What kind of society would torment its masterminds in such a way? How can they not understand one's needs to share his art with the world, to seize the legendary title that is rightfully his? One simply cannot stay confined, leaving his potential to rot and be lost forever. Who _dares_ withhold his destiny from him?

…Ba Sing Se. That is who - or what. The City of Walls and Secrets. The City of Stingy, Hardheaded, and Unfashionable Cultural Ministers with Absolutely No Appreciation for Art.

Pu-on Tim ponders this abomination as he sips his morning tea, struggling to keep a steady hand as his private carriage bumps along the dusty road. Most of the steaming liquid simply leaks down the sides of his pulpous lips, much of it drowning the thick hairs of his luscious black mustache. His beady brown eyes hardly twitch as the steam rises from his burning red skin. His rage is beyond all pain.

The peeved Upper Ring aristocrat habitually strokes both his chins in his concentration. Sir Long Feng, Grand Secretariat and Head of the Dai Li, is now officially the greatest fool ever to exist in the history of great fools. For Sir Long Feng fails to acknowledge Tim's career as a writer – a _brilliant_ writer, at that. Oh, the cruelty…

_You are…confident that your work will gain favor from audiences worldwide, and that they will all respond with 'overwhelming bursts of emotion' and 'flood Ba Sing Se with a never-ending river of gold coins'…Am I correct? _

_I believe I made myself clear, your Excellency. _

_Very well. I have a proposition for you, in that case. _

_Yes, your Excellency? _

_I'm sure you are aware of the presence of my agents in this room. If you can conjure an "overwhelming burst of emotion" from any one of them with your literature, then you may proceed with your plans. It should be a fairly simple feat for you, if I'm not mistaken. That is all. _

…Tim prefers not to recall the outcome of that proposition.

However, this writer is immune to any individual's opinions. He knows that he has been thoroughly educated in literature at Ba Sing Se University for over 20 years, and he knows that he will excel as a playwright. It is simply a matter of destiny, as he stated earlier; anyone in this accursed city should understand that! The ascension of Kuei to the throne, the Earthbending talent granted only to individuals worthy of the elite Dai Li, the Avatar's duty to the world, Pu-on Tim's calling to the stage…but the uptight Cultural Minister apparently thinks otherwise.

Preposterous! Tim has therefore decided that he will simply have to find someone else's approval. He has already begun his scheme, as he rides through the city in his colorful carriage.

The aristocrat reviews the plan in his crafty mind, folding his arms to rest over the enormous bulge of his stomach. The tea that had leaked earlier leaves an odd green stain that clashes oddly with the salmon-color of his magnificent, heavily embroidered tunic. Today marks the first time Tim pays no heed to this, however, as he defiantly crosses his arms.

Sir Long Feng controls all cultural activities in the city, but it is the Dai Li who enforces them. So naturally, Sir Long Feng is influenced by his agents. Ergo, Tim must seek out a Dai Li agent who agrees to vouch for him. What a brilliant idea! It is only to be expected from someone of Tim's nature, after all.

…Except the Dai Li themselves can be frightening. Tim hesitates to approach one, despite his absolute need to fulfill his pending destiny. Those same men are the ones could keep the same, callous faces throughout his entire flawless performance, after all.

However…there are many agents in Ba Sing Se. Most of them have long embraced the city's cultural stupidity – but surely, _surely_, there must be a flaw somewhere in Sir Long Feng's army of Earthbending statues. Tim shall never give up his dreams! They can wrench it from his dead body! …Which is actually something they're very capable of, so he'll have to play his cards carefully.

O/O

…Tim is just about ready to give up his dreams.

He has scoured the city's entire Upper Ring, Middle Ring, and is reaching the last few miles of the Lower Ring. He highly doubts that he'll find any sympathetic authorities out in the agrarian fields.

The few agents that the writer has come across so far all bore a stiff, threatening aura that he could sense from his carriage. The unnatural synchronization in which they walked, the complete lack of feeling as they conversed with or threatened others…Tim already predicts that they could care less for his art – or for his safety, for that matter.

The carriage reaches the last tiny community in the Lower Ring. Tim lets out a long, drawn-out sigh before he inches his way through the wooden doors, his plump face strained from the pain as his wobbly legs adjust to his weight on the ground.

He isn't really sure why he has decided to stop here of all places. Perhaps it is just his way of experiencing, quite literally, the end of the road. The end of all hope. The end of his destiny…He is almost overcome with grief, but as a nobleman he must keep a proper expression.

Tim looks disapprovingly around at the peasants passing him by, who all seem to raise their eyebrows at his almost regal clothing. What would they know of his troubles? Oh, the shame! He should not be standing here in this filthy patch of Ba Sing Se. He does not deserve to suffer the pain of an internally broken spirit, denied forever of its calling in life! He has so much more to see, so much of the world to awe. The agony! The sheer, excruciating….

The sign.

It stands out so clearly, so conspicuously, like a ray of long-lost hope breaking apart his sea of torment. It lights up Tim's face like one who has just been presented a feast on the verge of starvation. It's there. And…

It's getting away.

Tim gives a loud grunt similar to that of an overstuffed hog monkey, forcing his heavy legs to carry him as fast as possible towards the retreating green figure in the distance.

He can see it already. Even though the hazy figure continues to grow farther and farther despite his efforts to keep up, Tim knows all the signs of a radical like the back of his polished fingernails.

This agent is like no other, Tim has already concluded. Why? Why, just look at his _hair! _…Or complete lack of hair! The middle-aged writer shudders at the thought of losing his own luscious braid. How can one thrive without the irresistible elegance of the queue? It is Ba Sing Se's oldest and most handsome way of marking a nobleman – yet, this man, this protector of_ cultural heritage_, has deliberately kept his back bare!

Although the aristocrat does not agree with this unworldly fashion, it's a surefire sign nonetheless. However…Tim's body is proving to be a little too heavy for his liking. Bloody realm of Koh, is this once-in-a-lifetime chance going to slip through his fingers because he had a little too much roast duck for breakfast? He angrily strides forward.

Tim inhales deeply, preparing to shout out to his sign if need be…but almost as if on cue, the dark green figure with the pointed hat suddenly begins to slow down. His hands, which had been folded stiffly within his sleeves behind his back, begin to hang at his sides as he trudges forward. One of his stone-covered palms rises over his mouth to stifle a yawn.

Never would Tim have imagined the day he'd be so intrigued just watching another human being act like…a human being. He's been so used to seeing the statue-like Dai Li for his entire life, with their perfectly and unnaturally robotic movements. Observing this agent has caused a strange revelation, striking the writer to the core. Indeed, this man is…

Tripping.

As a completely baffled Tim continues to observe the scene, the hairless, yawning agent doesn't seem to notice when a large, dull green sphere rolls out into the middle of the dusty path, slipping quietly beneath the black folds of the loose robe concealing his feet. For a split second, it seems as if he's completely unaffected. Then one of his legs jerks forward, its steady pace coming to a screeching halt. The agent is well aware of his predicament by now, and he tries to land his foot on solid ground as his arms fly forward in surprise, his gold-trimmed sleeves flapping wildly. However, the green sphere continues to sabotage his balance, tangling itself between his feet and somehow rolling wherever he tries to stand.

The writer simply watches, blinking a couple of times as he witnesses the fall of a Dai Li agent. The Earthbender finally hits the ground face-first with a quiet thud, a few clouds of dust rising above his emerald robes, his arms sprawled out before him.

Tim frantically searches the dictionary of his mind for the right words to describe such a moment. This agent…he is most positively the man who shall make playwriting possible in this accursed city! Tim feels quite sure of this as he watches the agent slowly pick himself up from the ground, examining the now trampled cabbage next to him for a long, long moment before rising to his feet again.

For this agent is a true Nonconformist, defying the suffocating grasp of tradition with such a bizarre yet incontestably natural hairdo, with his free and peculiarly lethargic ways...a rare and genuine inspiration for all! The writer simply cannot let this opportunity pass. He begins to approach the scene less frantically than before, now that his targeted agent has been stopped temporarily by –

"MY CABBAGE!"

The agent has just begun to straighten back up his hat when the agonized voice startles both he and Tim. One of his stone-covered hands is still adjusting the brim as a thin figure from the distance crazily runs towards the scene with unnatural speed. He simply leaves that hand there for a moment, blinking a little when the figure comes to a halt before him.

It is apparent that the new speaker is enraged, with his boiling red face, twitching brow, and dragon-like breathing. He wears a dull, green and yellow tunic and sports a matching green turban. The hairs of his short, grey beard seem to curl from the steam of the ragged breaths escaping through his clenched teeth.

The agent raises an eyebrow when the turbaned man continues to huff angrily at him. "…Can I help you?"

Tim is now close enough to get a better look at the picture. It turns out that the agent isn't _hairless…_he's just hacked off enough of the black strands to make it appear so when the hat covers the back of his head. Also, the key to Tim's destiny is but a boy. He could very well be less than half the writer's age, no more than 20 or so years old at the most. But the shadows beneath his dark green eyes, along with the sunless color of his pale face, hint at a stressed existence beyond someone of his youth.

Even so, however, the boy's various expressions still mark that of a true nonconformist, as his skepticism is quite apparent when the turbaned man begins his raging demands. "Help? _Help?_" screams the cabbage merchant, pointing a shaking finger at the deformed vegetable lying in the dust. "Do you know how hard it is to replace these? Do you know the care, the _love _that gets put into every leaf, every field, every…"

The agent doesn't seem to be listening. He simply looks down at the ruined cabbage with that same strange expression. It seems as if he's somewhat surprised at the merchant's outburst; very few individuals (even Tim himself knows better) would dare to confront Ba Sing Se's cultural authority in such a manner. However, being a nonconformist, his expression (though dull) appears more intrigued than irate. It changes again when he seems to realize something, and he turns a foot to the side to examine the bottom of his shoe. He finally remembers that the merchant is speaking after a few moments and bluntly tosses in his own comment. "(Ahem)…I think your 'carefully selected, lovingly raised' cabbage has a bug in it. Just saying."

The writer, unnoticed, continues to watch curiously as the shock and horror drains all the color from the merchant's face at once. It suddenly occurs to him that what the agent keeps staring at beneath his stony sole is of great significance. The shoe has picked up something slimy from the leaves of the vegetable during its downfall from earlier: a slug. A _cabbage_ slug.

The horrifying sight doesn't seem to register quite well in the poor merchant's frustrated brain. "Y-you…YOU!" His eye is twitching more than ever as he addresses the agent, who raises his brow again. "Are you suggesting that I have flawed vegetable growing abilities and are accusing _my_ cabbages of being...ROTTEN?"

"Well…" The nonconformist glances one last time at the infested vegetable. "Yeah, pretty much."

Tim loses track of the merchant's wild outburst after some point, and he can only register a few words here and there. He begins to grow irritated himself; how could a dispute over a peasant's cabbage end up dragging this long? He has much more significant matters to discuss with this agent.

The writer begins to consider stepping into the conversation, until a very dangerous string of words shoots out from the merchant's mouth. "- will _not_ calm down! I refuse to let these despicable acts pass without proper punishment any longer! The treatment of my cabbages is no less than the Fire Na -"

The agent's dark eyes flicker in such a way that even the merchant involuntarily hesitates for a moment. "You new here?" he asks, his voice a tad too calm for Tim's liking.

"I-I'm a refugee of course!" the merchant replies indignantly. "But what does that matter? I -"

"Look…" the agent cuts in again, his head lowering so that his eyes become concealed beneath the brim of his hat. "First thing you should learn before yelling about your cabbages is that there's no war with the Fire Nation. There's no war in Ba Sing Se."

The merchant's expression mixes between confusion and rage. "I – what – but the Fire Nation _also_ destroyed my –"

"There is no war. In Ba Sing Se."

"But…cabbages…they –"

"No war! Spirits, just get it down!" The agent slaps a hand over his own face, not seeming to care that it's covered with hard stone.

Tim looks fearfully between the two. He can tell from the merchant's defiant expression that this will not end will for the peasant. There are only so many chances that an agent can give – which, admirably, is another nonconformist action on the boy's part.

…But aha! This is the writer's chance for an impressive entrance. He boldly steps between the two, a large smile stretching across his confident face. The merchant raises an eyebrow this time, his mouth still half-open in preparation for speech. The agent dully looks over, seeming as if he wouldn't be surprised if another cabbage attacks him right this moment.

"I overheard this heated conversation, and I simply _cannot_ stand to see such a lack of harmony between Ba Sing Se's own citizens!"

O/O

Tim and the young agent stand behind, watching the cabbage merchant march triumphantly down the dusty road. The agent's expression is slightly perplexed, but mostly cautious – which Tim doesn't understand. Does he not appear to be the most amiable, sophisticated nobleman the boy has ever had the pleasure of meeting? "You, er…really didn't have to do that…" begins the Earthbender, still dully observing the cabbage merchant jiggle a fat pouch of gold pieces, cradling it against the side of his cheek as he would one of his vegetables.

"_Oh_, but of course!" retorts the writer. The agent watches him out of the corner of his eye. "It was the only way to make peace and to avoid any harm between any one of you, physically and mentally!" Tim tries to avoid the knot that naturally forms within his stomach, however, remembering how the agent is accustomed to inflicting both kinds of damage. _Focus, Tim – remember, he's a nonconformist! Don't let the uniform scare you! _

The boy remains silent for a moment. "I'm pretty sure there was another solution other than giving him more money to grow spoiled cabbages…" he sighs. "You could've given him – I don't know, a pass to the University library to learn…" His head drops down sharply for a moment, as if he wonders why he's even talking. Raising his chin up again, however, he clears his throat. "Anyway, whatever it was, you did save me trouble. Much appreciated." The side of his mouth curves upward very slightly, and he begins to turn around.

The realization that the agent has just decided to _walk away_ hits Tim like a charging komodo-rhino. He cries out immediately, before the boy has even taken two steps. "Young man-" Wait, he's a Dai Li agent. "S-Sir! -" Wait, he's not the Cultural Minister. "Most highly esteemed protector!" …Well, that'll have to do.

The agent turns back around as if it's the most difficult thing he's ever forced himself to do. His pale face is terribly skeptical again – and if Tim must say so himself, a bit disturbed. "Is…" he struggles to wrench the words from his throat. "Is there…something…you need?"

The writer smiles as amiably and as graciously as he can possibly manage. "I apologize with _all _my heart to have to take more of your time…" The agent's brow twitches ever so slightly. "But I have a request that only someone of your caliber can only carry out. This request determines the fate of my entire life; it is the embodiment of my hopes, my dreams, my absolute passion…my _destiny!_"

Tim is finding it rather difficult to continue his declaration, because it seems as though the longer he speaks, the more the boy appears to want to avoid him…but no! His voice _will_ be heard! From one nonconformist to another, they should be able to understand each other with minimum complication. "You see, young man – highly esteemed protector, I have a talent for writing, particularly for the stage. I specialize in theatrical prose at Ba Sing Se University, you see. _However, _it is my greatest misfortune that your leader, the Grand Secretariat, has deemed –"

"_Wait_."

The writer's words choke up in his throat. Has he just been…interrupted? During his most professional, courteous, carefully planned, and moving speech? Has _he,_ the soon-to-be timeless legend in literature, just been –

"I know you." The boy's expression shows a few traces of mortified shock as his sleep-deprived eyes crack a little wider.

…This was not supposed to happen. Tim struggles to conjure up any words – he knows nothing about this nonconformist, yet the boy is somehow impossibly connected to himself in some strange, foreign way. "I-I…this…P-pardon me?" he finally sputters.

"You are…" the young agent concentrates for a moment, seeming to make sure his own suspicions are correct. "You're – aren't you that one guy?"

"…Eh?"

"Aren't you that weird playwriting guy who – sorry, I'm trying to think…"

Tim feels his heart dropping to the very bottom of his crushed soul, splattering across the cold, merciless ground. This cannot be! The frantic writer clearly remembers every face in that room, every statue who defied the beauty of his art…how can this agent –

"Okay yeah, aren't you the playwright that Long Feng Sir denied permission to produce a play about Avatar Aang's activities?" All signs of doubt have left the boy's face, and a frightening new expression has begun to settle in: disapproval.

Tim is mortified, and he suddenly has a strange urge to cry. "I-Indeed, that is my predicament at the moment," he replies shakily. "B-but, if you do not mind me asking, how is it that you have come upon the d-details of…o-of…" He is unable to continue as he struggles to compose himself.

"Er, well…I wasn't actually _there_, but I might've heard about it from my partner a few weeks ago..." The boy hesitates. His nonconformist soul is, at the very least, slightly touched by the pitiful face of despair looking back at him. "Anyway, isn't your name, uh…Poo something –"

"PU-ON _Tim_!" The writer suddenly bellows with frightening rage, which causes the agent takes a step backward. Just _how _many times will he have to correct this absolutely senseless mistake? If there were ever any one defect he could name about the world, it would be society's continuous assumption that his Spirit-Given name is somehow related to _FECES! _Tim's name has no such nature! How _dare _anyone…nonono, he's got to calm himself down. He is entirely at this agent's mercy. Challenged in the simple task of pronunciation or not, the boy still controls his fate. Tim must try, even under such grim circumstances. He loudly clears his throat after the agent watches him for a few more awkward seconds. "I apologize." He smiles so widely that his cheekbones hurt. "I have been awfully frustrated these days, and you deserve no such disrespect. However, please allow me a chance to explain myself. I know that you have knowledge of my predicament, but I will be forever grateful if you could lend your patience a little longer." Tim finishes off his moving display of reverence and poise by bowing as low as he can against the dusty ground.

The agent sighs, his expression looking drained of energy as he gives a single nod. He gives a quick and dismissive hand gesture for Tim to stand again, as if he prefers the passerby not to witness the scene.

The writer gladly rises to his feet, dusting off his robe and facing the boy once more. These will be the most important words he will ever have to utter in his life…Destiny, don't fail him now! "Most highly esteemed protector, I beg you to ask Sir Long Feng to reconsider his decision!" The writer's arms flail wildly with his emotion. "You should know the difficulties of being confined to tradition, and the joy of freedom when one proudly defies it! I wish to win this battle as you have. I wish to be as extraordinary a nonconformist as you are!" One of the agent's dark brows continues to rise higher and higher above the other. "But I am chained by the Cultural Authority in this city," Tim continues beseechingly. "I can only succeed with your assistance, and yours alone! Please…_please _help me reach this dream! I simply cannot live otherwise…I shall jump off the Majestic Outer Wall if I am tormented any further!"

Tim means every word he says. The agent seems to be able to sense this, though his right brow seems permanently glued high up his forehead. "_So…_" He doesn't seem to have any idea how to reply.

"So?" The writer stares back with crazed, destiny-deprived eyes.

"_So_. To make a long story short, you want me to tell Long Feng Sir to let you write your play because you'll commit suicide?"

"Precisely!" Tim feels the joyous river of hope flowing back into him. "You can describe to Sir Long Feng how moved you are by my art and how shameful it would be if Ba Sing Se were denied it."

The boy doesn't seem too keen on the idea of being moved by Tim's art, but he ignores the statement. "…You are aware of Long Feng Sir's nature, right?" he asks with mysterious, quizzical eyes.

"What aspect of Sir Long Feng's nature do you refer to?" Tim replies, puzzled.

"To be frank, I don't think a suicide threat's going to cut it."

The writer's face is aghast. "I…he…this is…argh!" He stops blurting out random fragments for a second. The evil fool! The stingy, pompous, horrifically malicious fool! That such a man could possibly call himself the Cultural Minister… "But of course!" Tim suddenly exclaims. "That is precisely why your support of my work is so crucial to my request! It shall be a quick and effortless task on your part."

"But the thing is…I've never read your work." The agent seems uncomfortable already, as if he expects the writer to throw another cabbage at him.

The nonconformist is visibly disturbed when Tim lets out a long, deafening laugh that echoes off some of the nearby walls, and several Lower Ring peasants turn their heads to look. "That will be the least of our problems!" the writer declares, suddenly producing a huge, magnificent volume from inside his flowing robes. The agent flinches. "I invite you to join several others in the adoration of my latest work!"

The boy's eyes retain that peculiar, almost horrified gleam as he gazes down upon the magnificent gold embroidery surrounding the lush, dazzling green cover of the 35,000-page book.

"Come on now, don't be modest!" laughs the writer again, trying to shove the volume in vain towards the agent. "You can tell me your opinion of the work whenever you wish, so long as you make it known to Sir Long Feng as soon as possible!"

"Wait…" the nonconformist begins, his eyes unable to leave the width of the gold-embossed pages. "You mean I have to…talk to you again after I read this?"

"Why, of course!" Tim replies cheerily. "How shall I ever know of your progress, or if you've gathered enough knowledge of my art to confront Sir Long Feng about it?"

Some kind of horrifying realization seems to dawn over the agent's face. "And…if I fail to contact you about my progress? Or fail to have an audience with Long Feng Sir?" he asks, though he already knows the answer.

"Then…" The despair momentarily wrenches the writer's heart. "Then that shall be the end of my dreams, and my destiny – and the end of me as well!" he cries. "I have no purpose in life without this ambition!"

The boy silently hangs his head, his arms falling limply at his sides. Tim believes the young man finally understands his pain. The agent then slowly reaches out his arms as he continues staring at the ground, his stone-covered palms rigid as they turn upwards with painful, jerk-like motions. "Alright…Tim…" he almost mutters, his face suddenly appearing more tired than ever. "I'll take the book…and tell Long Feng Sir…how much. I. Love it."

The agent did not expect Tim to toss the massive volume into his arms so suddenly and enthusiastically, and he almost staggers under the weight as he catches it. "Most highly esteemed protector, most extraordinary young man, most generous and inspirational nonconformist, I am forever in your debt!" cries the writer, tears of happiness flowing down his pink, fleshy face. The boy hides his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. "I cannot even begin to express my gratitude! Oh, the things I can accomplish! The dreams that are suddenly all a reality – it is wonderful, just _wonderful!_ I enthusiastically await our next meeting with news from Sir Long Feng, and –"

"No!" the boy suddenly yells, waving a frantic hand before him. Tim's outburst comes to a screeching halt as he pauses, confused. "I mean…! You don't have to contact me again or anything." He thinks long and hard for a moment. "I'm, er, pretty sure things should go well. So! I'll write back to you as soon as Long Feng Sir gives his approval, and you can quickly begin your playwriting…destiny." He shifts uncomfortably as he tucks the massive book beneath an arm.

"Oh, I would very much appreciate that!" the aristocrat exclaims, touched by the nonconformist's concern for his convenience. "And you're _certain_ that things shall proceed as we wish?" He needs to hear the words, after all, if he is to sleep well tonight.

"I'm…" the nonconformist begins, gazing cautiously into Tim's crazed brown eyes. "I am…pretty darn sure. I'll think of something." His expression is strangely akin to misery as he finishes the sentence. The writer lets out a great sigh of relief that shakes his massive body. "After all," the agent continues, "we wouldn't want you going crazy and jumping off that wall…would we?" He cracks a stiff smile with utmost difficulty.

Ah, the wonders of Dai Li nonconformists, with their rare senses of humor! Tim and the agent share a couple of laughs, though his own voice produces the vast majority of the volume; the boy's laughs come out bluntly and individually, with large pauses between each. "That would be best," agrees the writer, wiping away another joyous tear with his sleeve. "Sir Long Feng will have no choice but to submit!"

"Alright, then!" the agent concludes rather forcefully. "I will send word to Long Feng Sir as soon as I can. It was a pleasure…to meet you."

"Likewise!" Tim calls out as the boy sharply turns and starts to pace away with the thick volume. He suddenly thinks for a moment. "Oh – wait!"

The nonconformist clenches down hard on the book without moving a muscle, his back still turned. "…Yes?"

"I apologize for asking, but is there any difference between Sir Long Feng and Long Feng Sir?"

"…_What?_"

Tim smiles sheepishly. "I cannot help but notice that you and I address his Excellency rather differently. Does he purposely require that I address him with a forefront 'Sir'? Is this a means of degrading me because he simply cannot accept my art? Does he mean to –"

"_Tim._" The agent still faces the opposite direction, and he begins walking again. "I honestly don't think it matters…"

"Oh. Well – thank you so much again! I am forever grateful to you. Your generosity will surely travel far and wide, and..."

The nonconformist has already disappeared from sight.

O/O

_Mr. Pu-on Tim, _

_It has come to my attention that your literature has remarkably impressed one of my head spokesmen, agent Yuhan Tsen. I must stress to you, however, that regardless of your writing talent, Ba Sing Se is currently in no position to host plays for His Highness. You must understand that a play of your nature will only stress His Highness further about the situation outside the walls. The Earth Kingdom authority is already trying its hardest to protect our city; reminding us of the war in a play focused on Avatar Aang, therefore, would not be a pleasurable experience. _

_Even so, however, I am willing to allow you to undertake your journey in pursuing the Avatar. I am unable to inform you when His Highness will be able to attend your play, but you are free to work on it in the meantime. _

_There is one condition you must accept if you are to make use of the necessary funds and supplies that will be provided: You will submit a detailed account of your findings to the Dai Li every month. Any information regarding the young Avatar and his companions will prove beneficial to the Earth Kingdom authority, so that we may be aware of their plans regarding the war and aid them in any necessary way. Also, I presume that you will continue to adhere to Ba Sing Se's policy upon your return, and that you will speak of neither the war nor your experiences. _

_You may leave as soon as you agree to these conditions. _

_Signed, _

_Long Feng_

_Grand Secretariat of Ba Sing Se_

_Primary Advisor of Earth King Kuei _

_Head of the Dai Li _

…

The playwright finishes off the last, curling details of his signature upon the contract with a wide, permanent smile. Closing the vial of ink and wiping off the tip of his quill, he rolls up the parchment and proudly places it in the hands of agent Yuhan Tsen.

The two are standing between the gates of the Outer Wall, which have been pulled wide open by a multitude of guards, who still stand ready to attack any intruders who may take advantage of this exposure. The light of world outside spills through the gap, casting brilliant rays upon the city within.

"Well, I hope you find everything you're looking for," says the nonconformist, tucking the parchment into his sleeve with a grim smile. He already looks ready to return to the city.

"Oh, I assure you, this masterpiece shall be a timeless legend!" Tim replies, allowing himself to be helped into a huge, loaded carriage. "Sir Long Feng will bow to my prowess when he sees the result -"

"And when you gather information about the Avatar," agent Tsen reminds him.

"Yes, of course. I will travel to the ends of this globe, and I shall not stop until the entire world knows my name!"

"…And gather information about the Avatar."

"Naturally!" Tim takes one last look at his beloved city, soaking in the vast agrarian fields and majestic walls. He gazes down at the nonconformist, smiling again. "When I'm a legend, I'll make sure to recognize your generosity in every magnificent performance! I shall never forget."

"…Right."

"Wish me luck, most highly esteemed protector!" the writer calls from his carriage, which lurches forward to begin the journey of a lifetime. The agent does not reply as he remains standing behind the gates, clasping his hands behind his back and watching with his always-tired eyes. He finally disappears from sight when the massive gates slowly come to a close in front of him, sealing away the Impenetrable City forever.

Pu-on Tim turns to gaze at the road ahead of him. His art will finally blossom as it should, and he has never been more thrilled. He clasps a map tightly in his fingers, a large red circle already marking his first destination.

The beginnings of his legend shall commence in the Southern Water Tribe.

* * *

><p>Hmmm, I think this chapter has already helped me get over my block! XD Writing melodramatically and in present tense can do wonders.<p>

Also, it's only coincidence that Tim happens to converse with a protagonist from one of my other stories... :P Honestly though, I tried to make the most reasonable circumstances. Long Feng would probably be the guy to give permission for something like plays about the war, and if he says no then you go to his agents! xD And I thought I might as well use _my_ agent, in that case ^^ Not to mention I got to make him trip over a cabbage.


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